The small iron cage, too cramped to even stretch his limbs, was his entire world. A name? He had none. They called him Slave No. 25.
Never having stepped outside, he didn't even realize his world was small. Never having been given a name, he secretly cherished the cold, impersonal title of No. 25.
The dark, six-pyeong room, packed with iron cages, was his friend, his family. The stench of decay hung heavy, but to him, it had become a perverse comfort, almost fragrant in its familiarity. They leaned on each other, waiting for the day they might be sold, all while slowly wasting away.
Being sold here was, in a twisted way, a stroke of luck. Better to become someone's plaything, surviving by catering to their whims, than to be fed to monsters as meat. No one dared say it aloud—admitting it felt like reducing their existence to nothing more than slavery—but the thought lingered in every mind.
Creak.
That sound again.
Someone was being sold. Or someone was being devoured.
The despairing creak of the door was no different from a death sentence, heralding one of two fates.
Swallows of fear echoed faintly through the room.
Moments later, the dim space flooded with light, and a red-skinned ogre woman with horns jutting from her head strode in. Towering over two meters, her body rippled with menacing muscle. She was the owner of this slave market. Her name? Unknown. But she was always the one who showcased the slaves or tossed the unsold—or the returned—into the monster pens as feed.
The ogre surveyed the cages with a glance, then seized the topmost one with a rough hand and slammed it to the floor with a deafening crash. It was No. 25's cage.
His world shook violently, and anxiety surged within him. Cold sweat trickled down his spine, sticky and unrelenting. His heart pounded, his breath quickened.
Anxiety swelled into fear, and fear fed on itself, spiraling into despair. Once it began, despair's momentum was unstoppable.
A massive human shadow loomed before No. 25. Too terrified to meet the buyer's gaze, he fixed his eyes on the floor, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
The ogre, flashing sharp gold teeth—bought with the profits of her trade—grinned slyly as she introduced No. 25 to the customer. "This one's pricey, but he's the finest in the shop. Quite the looker, and docile too. Perfect, isn't he?"
As she said, No. 25 wasn't unattractive. His gray eyes, half-hidden beneath thick black hair that fell over his brows, held a subtle charm. His slender frame made him easy to handle, even for those with little strength. A slave of his quality was rare in a world where men were scarce.
Lowering her voice as if sharing a secret, the ogre leaned toward the customer, though her words still reached No. 25's ears. "And don't let his looks fool you—this one's got dragon's blood in him. He's tough. You can be as rough as you like, and he won't break easily. Want me to show you?"
Her arm bulged with veins, a terrifying promise of violence. No. 25's body shook uncontrollably. He'd seen too many of his kin die under that fist—stomachs ruptured, bones shattered, faces mangled beyond recognition. The ogre sometimes used unwanted slaves to vent her frustrations.
Being struck hurt. Losing was agony. No. 25 clutched the small horns on his head and curled up, burying his face between his knees.
No, no, no, no!
"No, that's enough."
A voice, clear and pure as rolling jade beads, cut through the air. It was impossible to imagine it belonged to someone shopping for slaves in this wretched place. No. 25 slowly lifted his head to see who spoke.
Golden hair cascaded to her shoulder blades, paired with matching golden eyes and vertical, beast-like pupils. Her figure, curvaceous even in loose clothing, radiated an otherworldly presence.
For a moment, No. 25 forgot himself and stared blankly at her face. Their eyes met. Realizing his mistake, he immediately dropped his gaze.
A slave must never look their master in the eye. That was the unspoken rule.
I'm going to die…!
But contrary to his fears, the customer showed no reaction. Instead, she crossed her arms and turned to the ogre. "Dragon's blood, you said? How did you get him?"
The ogre frowned, scratching her head as if dredging up an old memory. "How? Just got lucky snatching him from a cave. Thinking back, we hit the jackpot that day."
She let out a hearty laugh.
The customer, however, didn't join in. Perhaps unsatisfied with the vague answer, she only scratched her chin, letting out a soft "Hmm" instead of a reply. The ogre, visibly annoyed by the lack of enthusiasm, scratched her head again. "Well, if he's not to your liking, want to see another? We've got vampires, werewolves, even plain humans if that's your taste."
The customer, still with arms crossed, pointed at No. 25 with a tilt of her chin. Even that small gesture exuded elegance. "I'll take him. I like his eyes."
Satisfied, the ogre called out his price as if she'd been waiting for this moment. "Ten thousand gold coins."
An outrageous sum—enough to live in luxury for a lifetime without lifting a finger. But the customer merely pulled a small card from her cloak and tossed it to the ogre. "Put it on this."
Without another word, she approached No. 25 and kicked the cage door, shattering it.
For the first time, the entrance to the world No. 25 had never dared dream of leaving stood open.
He crawled out slowly, on all fours. His joints creaked, protesting the unfamiliar stretch of his long-confined body. For No. 25, who had never known freedom, the sensation wasn't liberating—it was terrifying, like dangling from a single thread in the void.
"Can you walk?" came her voice from above.
No. 25 nodded faintly. But his body, weakened by years of confinement and malnutrition, betrayed him. He collapsed repeatedly, unable to stand.
The customer shook her head and approached. No. 25's heart sank in terror. He thought he'd escaped, but if deemed useless, he'd be discarded. His price had kept buyers away for so long; if he wasn't wanted now, he'd end up as monster fodder.
He couldn't let that happen.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I can stand, please… just give me a moment!" he pleaded, tears in his voice.
The customer paused at his desperate cry. "I'm sorry, but I don't have time," she said, gesturing toward him.
No. 25 braced himself. A madwoman who'd pay ten thousand gold coins only to kill a slave on the spot? Still, better to die as a plaything than be devoured by a monster. He squeezed his eyes shut.
But time passed, and no pain came. Was he dead? No—his thoughts were clear, his body still moved, and the cold breeze brushed his skin. The stench of decay, once so familiar, was gone.
"How about opening your eyes?"
At the voice of his new master, No. 25 cracked his eyes open.
Before him stood a colossal castle.
Even No. 25, who'd known only the inside of a cage, could guess what kind of being owned such a place.
"M-Majesty… the Demon King?"